


Homecoming

by ScaryScarecrows



Series: Gaslights [22]
Category: Batman: Gotham by Gaslight (2018)
Genre: Bruce is not here, Fluff, Gen, Hugging, JASON MADE IT HOME, Reunions, Tim thinks he's going crazy but he also doesn't care that much, won't he be surprised
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25699477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScaryScarecrows/pseuds/ScaryScarecrows
Summary: Dick’s looking at him face-on, though, and he doesn’t like what he sees. Injured or not, he’s across the roof in a heartbeat, long, curved knife pressed up against the man’s throat.“Who are you,” he snarls. “Who the hell are you, you son of a bitch—”The man, to his credit, stays still, helmet loosely gripped in his hands.“Hey, Dickie,” he says softly. “Long time, no see, huh?”
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Tim Drake
Series: Gaslights [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/946503
Comments: 9
Kudos: 147





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> I really did fix things this time. Y’know. Mostly. 

Okay, this is bad.

Two-Face got lucky, or one of their informants is a two-timing dirty rat (Tim’s leaning towards this one), or maybe a bit of both. Whichever one it is, they’re surrounded by angry men, horribly outnumbered and, as much as Tim hates to say it, outclassed.

It didn’t start out this way. They were fine, but they missed a guy with a knife, and he got the drop on Dick, managed, even to get a few kicks in before he got taken out. Dick’s fine, and he’ll probably continue to be fine (if they get out of this anytime soon), but he’s not at the top of his game, and things turned ugly very quickly.

A short summary: Dick’s nursing a handful of slices and cracked ribs, and Tim knows his knee’s not going to support him for much longer; somebody got a lucky hit with a pipe, he’s lucky it’s still in its socket. And that’s not counting the hit to the head he took immediately after, when his traitorous knee dropped him.

This…is looking like it might go south.

It had to happen sometime, he thinks, making eye contact with a giant of a man who  _ has _ to be made of stone. The giant grins. He’s missing teeth.

A second later, he’s missing his head altogether.

Dick’s back is still against his, which means they’ve got company. And company likes attention; the men near the giant whirl, shouting in surprise, and one of them immediately takes a knife up under his jaw, slicing through flesh and tendons and leaving the bone half-hanging off.

Tim knows an opportunity when he sees one. Knee twinging, he launches himself at the nearest man, bringing him down and smashing his head against the cobblestones with a horrifying  **crack!** The fog is hiding their (helper?) newcomer, but he catches a glimpse of Dick piggybacking another man, hands tight against his head, before they both topple into the dark.

“They’re too much for you!” The voice is muffled and (un?)familiar, but it doesn’t matter anyway; he knows what he can take. He’s about to say so, too, when a heavy hand hauls him up by the collar and they are  **moving** , sprinting towards the fog where Dick disappeared.

He apparently won that fight. Tim sees the stick whipping through the fog towards his carrier’s face and he braces to drop—

\--only for the man’s arm (spiked gauntlets, like Batman’s) to come up and catch the wood between the spikes. It twists, and the staff splinters.

Tim’s thrown over the man’s shoulder, and he spares a second to feel insulted that he’s being thrown around like a sack of potatoes. Then he takes advantage of his new position to swing himself around and try to topple the big bully, knees in his ribs (ow ow ow) and hands locked tight under his chin, pulling his head back-back-back, c’mon, c’mon…

The man just…leans backwards until Tim has to let go or fall hard, and he’s just loosening his grip when there’s gunfire and a bullet whizzes by them,  **literally** slicing a neat hole through Tim’s cape.

“Not the time!”

And then they’re going up. They are going up, who is this--this  _ person _ , where is he getting all these tools? How is Tim’s patented Topple Maneuver not working?

There’s the sound of a line being shot that says Dick is following, and at least there’s that. They hit a roof and Tim’s dropped, only a little roughly.

His kidnapper/rescuer is, uh. Big. Batman-sized, easy. Looks a little like him from a distance, too-long coat, heavy armor, big boots that probably add yet another (unnecessary) inch. The headpiece, though, is definitely proof that this is not the Bat. It’s red, molded metal, reminiscent of a medieval suit of armor.

“Who are you?” The casual listener won’t hear the catch to Dick’s breathing, won’t see the effort he’s giving to stay upright. They need to get home, sew him back together.

The stranger doesn’t answer, preferring instead to reach up like he’s going to remove the helmet. What in the world…what sort of maniac is this?

“God dammit…” he’s muttering, fingers going this way and that. “Every time…drop it once and you never get it off again…there!”

He pulls it off, but he’s facing away from Tim now and all he can see is red hair. For a minute he’s reminded painfully of Jason, but this man’s got it too short for there to be too much of a resemblance; it’s just down to his jaw, whereas Jay’d had it nearly to his shoulders when…when.

Dick’s looking at him face-on, though, and he doesn’t like what he sees. Injured or not, he’s across the roof in a heartbeat, long, curved knife pressed up against the man’s throat.

“Who are you,” he snarls. “Who the  **hell** are you, you son of a  **bitch—** ”

The man, to his credit, stays still, helmet loosely gripped in his hands.

“Hey, Dickie,” he says softly. “Long time, no see, huh?”

“Don’t pull that shit,” Dick snaps, and Tim thinks he might use that knife, wonders why. “You’ve got three seconds to answer me.”

“I told you to head Tim off,” the man says instead, voice still that soft, hush-hush-spooked-horse tone. “Remember? When you found me, I s-said.” He swallows then, thick and audible. “I said he didn’t need ta see that.”

What? What is this? What is going on?

Dick looks like he’ll be sick. The knife clatters to the ground and he reaches up to the man’s face instead, fingers just brushing against his skin before his knees buckle and he tries to follow his knife down.

The man catches him easily, helmet striking the ground as those gloved hands swoop up and under Dick’s arms. Tim moves forward, about to go for the fallen knife, when the man turns.

And Tim realizes, then, that he must be dead, that this is…is his brain trying to soothe itself in his final seconds, or that there truly is an afterlife. That’s the only explanation for why his dead brother is looking at him from four feet away, expression caught between sheepish and nervous.

“Heya, Tiny Tim.”

And. He’s  **dead** , it’s fair that he be annoyed, which is why the only thing he can think of to say is, “Weren’t you tall enough before?”

* * *

The afterlife looks like Gotham. It may be Gotham, for all Tim knows. Regardless, Jason tells him to lead the way back to wherever they’re staying, and Tim does, feeling, a little, like Orpheus.

Dick’s still unconscious when they get there, and Jason lays him on the heavy wooden table.

“He’s bleeding,” he says, a little confused. Maybe the dead aren’t supposed to bleed. Maybe Dick’s caught in the middle or something? “Shit...okay. Okay, c’mon, Dick, wake up.”

He doesn’t. Tim can’t blame him, really.

Jason (older, like he would’ve been if Joker hadn’t…) starts fiddling with the laces at Dick’s collar, nails fighting for purchase at the knots. Tim moves closer, snagging the medical bag on instinct.

“What happens if we fix him?” he asks, feeling very…disconnected. “Does he stay or go?”

Jason twists around to give him a funny look.

“Uh, he doesn’t bleed out and die?”

Ah. Maybe they have to motivate Dick to return to the land of the living.

Jason finally gets the shirt loosened. It actually doesn’t look that bad, all things considered. His armor caught most of the shot, like it’s supposed to.

“C’mon, Dickie, wake up, you gotta yell at me for being an idiot, doncha?”

But if he wakes up here, won’t that mean he’s dead like they are?

Tim is very confused.

Dick stays out, even when Jason puts in stitches where he can and wraps him up where he can’t, muttering about inconsiderate morons and  _ wrapped ribs are a recipe for disaster, couldn’t you have aimed two inches down, c’mon here _ . But he’s breathing evenly, like he’s just asleep rather than dying, when they move him to his bed.

He’s not prepared to be engulfed a second later. His arms are pinned, with just enough room to flail at the elbows, but this is  **familiar** , this suffocating hug.

So is the heartbeat under his ear, which is  **impossible** …

But he can feel his own heart beating, can feel the rush of air in his nose. He doesn’t feel dead. And he doesn’t remember any sort of injury that would have…

Jason’s warm. He always used to be, and it had been so  **final** , that last time Tim saw him. He’d been so cold, a-and still. But he’s not cold anymore.

“Jay?” He’s shaking, he realizes. He doesn’t remember starting to shake. His knee is jerking like it’s on a string being tugged and he’s positive Jason’s the only thing keeping him upright, but that’s  **impossible** \-- “God- **Jason** —”

The arms tighten and he’s lifted off his feet. He used to hate this, used to dig sharp nails into whatever exposed flesh was available.

“I gotcha, Timmy.” One hand flattens against his back. “I gotcha.”

He remembers that, if in a sleepier rasp because Tim woke him with a panicked, “I hadda nightmare.”

Ivy, he thinks hysterically. Ivy came back, and Cyrus Gold, but they came back wrong, all wrong…

“You can’t blame me,” Jason says suddenly, and it’s right then that Tim realizes that he’s started sobbing into his shirt. “If Dick wakes up and starts yelling at me for making you cry, you have to tell him it’s not my fault.”

He doesn’t want to look up, doesn’t want to see what Jason’s been twisted into (decaying zombie? Wolfman?), and he works his arms free to wrap around his neck. Feels human, and not, like…mud, or exposed bone or anything.

“Hey-hey, Timmy…” Jason sounds panicked. He has no right to be panicked. “You’re okay, c’mon now, huh? Shit--you’re not hurt, are you?” He’s lugged back downstairs to the table and plunked onto it. Jason moves as though to let go and Tim lunges upwards, trying to latch onto him again. Not now. It’s not  **time** , he can’t do this again… “I’m not goin’ anywhere, Timmy, I just wanna make sure you’re not hidin’ a stab or somethin’.”

“Promise?” His voice comes out thick and wet and foreign to his ears. It may not even be understandable.

It must be, though, because a hand rubs against his head and Jason says, “Yeah, Tim. I’ll be right where you can see me. Now leggo.”

He does, in the end, peel his limbs free. It takes a few minutes of heavy blinking to see clearly again, but when he’s through, Jason’s still there. Still…still normal-looking. Bigger, yes, older, and there’s a shock of white in his bangs, but other than that…

“You were dead,” he says, because he has to confirm this, make sure this isn’t…he doesn’t know. Something. A THING. Jason grimaces.

“Yeah--wow, that knee does not look good.” It doesn’t feel good, now that Tim’s aware of it enough to care. It’s hot and like, twice its size. And his head hurts, while he’s thinking about pain. “Okay, titmouse, pants off.”

That proves to be harder than Tim thought it would be. He thinks the knee will drop him on the floor if he tries to get up. He doesn’t really care.

One of Jason’s hands comes up to cup his head, fingers warm behind his ear.

“S’gonna be okay,” he says softly, and then, because he is, in fact, awful, “Have you grown at all since I left?”

Later, Tim will call it necessary to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. At the time, though, the only thought in his head is that Jason deserves to be kicked in the shin.

* * *

Once the knee is wrapped and Tim’s head’s been examined (‘now  **there’s** a goose egg, jeeze, s’bigger than you--ow, you little shit!’), Jason rifles through the chest of drawers until he comes up with an oversized shirt and slacks that they keep for days when one of them’s more bandages than human. They’re snug on him, but they fit well enough all the same.

Dick remains unconscious for another hour, which means that Tim’s shock and pain are giving way to exhaustion by the time he starts coming round. He’s half-asleep, actually, lulled into an unaware state by the crackling fire and Jason’s steady breaths, when there’s noise.

He’s moved, just to the other side of the settee, but it’s enough to rouse him fully. Dick’s waking up, hands moving carefully around his ribs and down his sides.

“Hm…?”

“Dick?” Jason gives him a shake. “You awake?”

“Tim…?”

“Tim’s fine. You got yourself sliced up pretty good, because you’re an idiot who can’t dodge, apparently.”

Dick’s eyes snap open and he tries to sit up, elbows shaking.

**“Jason—”**

“Hey.”

Dick props himself against the headboard and reaches up, fingers shaking, to touch the white streak and brush his hands across Jason’s face and shoulders before yanking him off-balance and into a hug that Tim  **knows** will realign his spine.

“M’sorry, Jay,” he’s babbling, fingers bone-white around Jason’s shirt. “M’sorry, m’so sorry-- **Jesus—** ”

He knows it’s kind of mean, and incredibly random, given the circumstances, but  **wow** is he grateful he’s not the one being squeezed like that. He thinks he hears popping.

“It’s not your fault—” Dick makes a strangled noise and pulls himself half-off the bed. Jason drops a hand to the mattress to keep from being yanked off his feet. “S’all right, c’mon, Dick, I…you’re gonna hurt yourself—”

**That** earns him a snarl and a knuckle rapped sharply against his skull. Dick doesn’t seem to be verbal anymore. Tim can’t blame him.

“Tim. Help.”

No.

Jason eventually kneels down next to the bed, so they’re at about the same level, and Dick wraps around him like one of Ivy’s vines. What little Tim can see of his face is red and shiny and his whole body is so tense that he’s shaking. When Tim makes the mistake of inching a little closer, one of his hands peels off of Jason’s shoulder and yanks him over hard enough to knock his thighs against the bed frame.

In years past, his older brothers dragging him into a huddle like this almost always led to Tim’s being roped into a  _ scheme _ , usually as something embarrassing. Once, they’d convinced him to dress up as a little girl, doll, pigtails and all, so they could slip into some Ladies’ Charitable Meeting (tea, scones, judgmental gossip) and swipe whatever food they could fit in their pockets. He’d been found out halfway through. There had been screaming.

That had been about the time he cut his hair off. No relation, of course.

This time, though, it’s nothing but a tangle of clutching fingers. It hurts to make his way to the ground, hurts even more to stay there, but he does it anyway.

It’s an hour before Jason finally pulls back, just a little, and breathes, “C’mon, Timmy, you’re gonna fuck up your knee even more.”

It’s stiff already, and throbbing, which means he can’t fight back when he’s picked up and set on the bed. Dick, with his freakishly reaching limbs, easily tucks him against his chest so he can pull Jason down with them. It’s surprising, a little, when Jason turns out to be capable of pulling them both into a hug.

“You grew up, Jay,” Dick whispers. “Jesus...look at you...”

“Yeah.”

They’ll have to tell him, Tim thinks suddenly. About. Well.  **Him.** About what they did, after he…went away.

But not right now.

He swallows and reaches up to cling to Jason’s shirt in case he…he doesn’t know, vanishes? Turns out to be a shared hallucination? Admittedly, clinging won’t make the latter untrue, but…

His older brother has apparently come back from the dead. He feels justified in being a little irrational.

Dick’s arm, the one tossed over him, moves as he reaches up and runs his fingers through the patch of white in Jason’s hair before dropping his hand back.

“Jesus, Jay,” he rasps, “Jesus…you’re not…you’re…” His arm’s shaking. “You’re here? M’not…”

His voice breaks. Jason sighs and shakes his head, lips pressed together like he always did when he was upset.

“I’m here,” he says. His voice is rough, rougher than Tim remembers it to be. “I don’t know what…I didn’t mean…I wanted to come home. I swear I did.”

Tim wants to ask, wants to  **know** . But…but not now. Not right this minute. He’s too numb to take anything else in, he can’t. Later. He’ll ask later, when he’s surrounded by books that he can look into, records…

Dick laughs, half-hysterical.

**“God.”**

Jason doesn’t say anything to that, just pulls an arm down and in between them to curl around Tim’s shoulders. He’s shaking, just a little, and Dick pulls him closer. Tim can’t even complain about being squashed.

He closes his eyes and tries to get used to breathing shallowly. He hasn’t been this…this engulfed in warmth for  **years** .

They used to sleep like this, out of necessity. It had taken a few months at the Manor to break the habit, and even then, if it was cold enough, or one of them was sick or hurt…but it’s been a long time.

The other two (it’s been a long time since that, too) must think he’s asleep, after a while, because when Dick speaks again, his voice is scarcely above a whisper.

“How?”

“Later, huh?” Jason sighs and the arm just above Tim’s head moves, like he’s readjusting his grip on Dick’s shirt. “It’s complicated.”

“Does Bruce know?”

“No.”

Well, that’s going to be…something. It’s going to be something.

Dick laughs, sort of, and moves, pulls Jay’s head down a bit to kiss his forehead.

“You’re really, really here this time?”

“Yeah. M’ere.” He sighs and his thumb moves gently over Tim’s shoulder blade. “Promise.”

Tim believes him. And it’s not that he doesn’t care about the how, but…

But yeah. For once, he really doesn’t care. They’ll worry about it later.

THE END


End file.
